


John Watson's Incredibly Boring Life

by Yourfavouritechild



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breast cancer, Cancer, Character Death, Companion Piece, Drama, F/M, Flashbacks, John Watson's dog, M/M, POV John Watson, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourfavouritechild/pseuds/Yourfavouritechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't about some heart-wrenching reunion. This isn't about homoerotic experiences. This is about a man, more specifically, a man named John Hamish Watson. A simple story about this simple man's life post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Message from Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson arrives at 221B Baker Street a couple of weeks after Sherlock jumped. He finds a note addressed to him on the doorstep; it is from Sherlock Holmes.

     The wind tickled the back of John Watson’s neck as he walked briskly towards what he used to call home, wielding a cane to help with his limp leg. 221B Baker Street, once a comforting flat, only reminded John of the sad reality that Sherlock was gone.

     John had on a plain, blue button-down shirt, under his usual black coat, and dark jeans; freshly showered, yet starting to sweat as he approached his previous abode.

     He strode quickly down the sidewalk, head down, hands in fists at his side. The grey sky above did not improve his already melancholy mood. John slowed to a stop and looked up. There it was: the black, chipping door with golden knocker and numbers. John sighed heavily, feeling his chest cave a little and his lips curl into a small frown.

     _Shit, this is going to be hard_ ,  John thought. _It’s okay, you can get through this. Just sort through a few things, don’t think about it too much, and send the rest away._

     It had been a couple of weeks since John entered into the flat, last being directly after Sherlock’s funeral. The idea of having to return to a spot that still smelled of Sherlock, held his possessions where he last placed them, made John overcome with grief.

     John gave himself slight nod of encouragement and pressed forward, breath shaking and lower lip quivering. As he approached the forlorn door of 221B, the ebony paint peeling, and the once gleaming knocker and numbers now resembling those of a squalid edifice, something caught the doctor’s eye on the doorstep.

     A small, square envelope rested on the step, seeming to be delicately placed by some person. John bent down, peering at the cream coloured post. Upon the front was written Watson in black, swooping letters. John reached for it with his left hand, hesitated, then gently took it up from the unswept ground. With one eyebrow arched, John turned himself around, eyeing his surrounds. Nobody, besides an elderly man sitting on a bench across the street, was around to have placed it there. It must have been placed there rather recently, too, as it had rained heavily the other day.

     John, abashed at this find, leaned his cane upon the forgotten door of 221B. He flipped over the envelope.

 _Expensive paper, smooth writing, and black-as-night ink. Who in God’s name put this here?_   John questioned himself before flicking the envelope open, as it had not actually been sealed, just tucked inside of itself.

     John took a deep inhale, then pulled out a simple piece of paper. He exhaled sharply, realizing a message with equally brilliant penmanship had waited inside for him. He shook his head slightly, murmuring to himself, forehead pinched at the brow. _Shit_ , was all John could think.

_John,_

_I apologize for my premature departing from your life. It was something I had to do and I recognize that you may never forgive me for it. One day we will be able to be connect once more, but there are far too many complications to do so now. John, I wish to thank you. For being exactly the person I always needed in my life, for being my friend. I have, and always will, love you, John Watson. It was a pleasure._

_-SH_

_P.S. Please don’t get rid of my violin._

     John, taken aback, stuck a hand out to catch himself as his knees gave way a bit. Leaning on the door, John blinked back tears. So many questions, the whole world was swirling around him, his head spinning.

_Sherlock is alive. Damn it, he loves me. I’m his friend. Why did he do this? Where is he? Is he okay? God, Sherlock. Why did you have to go?_

     “Sherlock... I miss you,” was all he could get out.

     After a moment, John pushed himself upright and wiped a tear dripping down his cheek. He looked around again to see if anyone had seen him. Still the old man sitting on the bench across the way. There was something familiar about that old man, John couldn’t put his finger on it.

     Collecting himself, John snatched his cane and pulled his keys out with the other.

_God, what just happened._

     John pushed his way inside, breathing fast and feeling a bit flustered.

     “Mrs. Hudson!” John called out, retrieving his keys from the door. “Mrs. Hudson, did you see who put this on the doorstep?” John shouted, holding up the letter in his right hand, as he pressed the door closed.

     The gloomy, black door of 221B Baker Street became somber once more. A few sprinkles misted from the darkening London skies. The few people on the street moved quickly to get to their houses or the nearest store, but not the old man. The elderly man, sitting on the bench across from the flat, did not move. He sat tall, squinting his wet eyes that hid behind his ginger-grey curls. He let out a slow, shaky breath.

     “I miss you too, John Watson,” the man whispered, sounding morose, to no one in particular.  


	2. An Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to sort through some of Sherlock’s things when he is interrupted by the Holmes brothers.

     “Oh, John, dear, it’s so nice to see you!” Mrs. Hudson started, coming in to give John Watson a hug. She put her arms around him, giving him a comforting squeeze. “It’s been so... quiet these days,” she looked down at the space between her and John, her hands still placed warmly on his shoulders.

     “Mrs. Hudson, about this letter,” John started again, holding up the cream coloured envelope he had just found, read, and nearly fainted over.

     “Oh, what, what letter? Where did you find that?” Mrs. Hudson seemed a little too surprised, she clasped her hands together and looked at John.

     “It was just outside, sitting on the doorstep,” a questioning look coming to his face. “Are you sure you hadn’t seen someone drop it off?”

     “Oh, no, nope, no one,” Mrs. Hudson pressed her pink lips together in a concerned, her eyes fluttering around the room. ** **  
****

John gave her a stern, disappointed look. A ding sounded from Mrs. Hudson’s doorway.

     “Oh, that must be the pie!” She gave John another quick hug. “If you want some pie and tea, deary, don’t hesitate to drop in!” She smiled, kissed his cheek and turned, becoming a flurry of pink and purple till her door closed shut.

     John then turned towards the stairs leading up to his previous home. How many times he laughed on the way up, discussed a case, or dragged his feet up in exhaustion. All good memories, though, happy ones. John put the letter and envelope into his coat pocket. He took a deep breath, clutched his cane tightly and started to ascend the stairs.

     It was the hardest climb of his life. Not only was his leg a burden, but he himself was weighed down by the emotion and memory of everything that happened since his first step into 221B Baker Street. When the doctor finally reached the doorway to the sitting room, he heaved a sigh and looked up from his feet. He leaned against the doorway, taking in the sight. Exactly as it had been left, except with few centimeters of dust covering it all.

     John flicked the light on, breathed in the faint smell of Sherlock, and fell into his usual chair across from Sherlock’s leather one. He let out a pathetic sounding, quivering breath. He leaned his cane against his armchair and sank his forehead into his sweating, cold palms.

    _Why, why, why, why. I just want you back, Sherlock. Screw complications, I need someone here for me_ , John thought as a few tears dripped to the floor.

     “Nope, John Hamish Watson, you are a fine. You are a soldier. Let’s just get through this,” John said to himself, pulling his head out of his hands and squaring his shoulders.  

     With a sharp exhale, John pushed himself up out of the armchair, grabbing his cane. He hobbled over to Sherlock’s violin, placed delicately on the coffee table. John could still hear the somber notes being played at three in the morning. John took the violin and bow in his free hand.

     “Tea, I guess,” John made his way to the kitchen, searching for anything edible that might remain. He found some old jars of body parts, and smiled, remembering Mrs. Hudson’s reaction to finding things in the fridge.

     Suddenly, a crash, and a thud echoed through the flat.

     “What the bloody hell was that!” John came racing through to the sitting area, forgetting his cane in the kitchen. “Oh, God damnit all!” John threw his hands up at the sight of a fist-sized rock with a note attached to it.

     Not bothering to look at the note, John scurried to the window that was broken. He peered through, seeing the dark figures run around the corner. He hits his hand against the window, mumbling curses under his breath, still staring out the window. Only the old man remained, for some reason. He seemed perfectly comfortable, situated by himself on a bench.

      _Maybe I should go say hello, take my mind of this, take the man’s mind off his own life. Maybe make a new friend_ , John thought.

     Friend. The word echoed quietly in his mind. He held his gaze at the elder, only shifting his eyes when the other man’s were obviously staring right back at him. The ginger-grey haired man apparently received a text message _(odd seeing older people text, but then again who am I to judge?)_ , because he reached into his long, black coats pocket and pulled out his phone. At the same time John’s own phone rang. Fiddling with his pockets, the doctor plucked his mobile out. It was a text, from Mycroft Holmes.

    _John,_

_I have arranged for a car to pick you up from 221B Baker Street at precisely 2 p.m. sharp. Please gather some of Sherlock’s old belongings, especially his violin (be careful with it), and bring them with you. Much obliged._

_\- MH_

     2 p.m., that was in two hours.

     John sighed, then put his phone away, turning back towards the rock the idiots had thrown through the window. He bent down, feeling his leg start to become more stiff, and untied the note from the rock. _Oh God, not another one._

      _John,_

_0/3._

_\- SH_

     The doctor’s face scrunched a bit, confused as to what it meant.

_What does he have three tasks he has to do he doesn’t want to inform me about, besides the fact that he has them?_

     John huffed, then stuffed the note in his pocket with the other

     “Okay, Doctor Watson, time to get to work!” John encouraged himself, raising his eyebrows up at his own comment. At this he began to sort through some of Sherlock’s medical books stacked up on a table. _Bloody Hell, this man has too much stuff for me to go through in two hours._

****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! As well as read it's soon-to-be companion of Sherlock's views of the matters! (:


	3. The Car Ride to Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson makes his way to talk to Mycroft, though he begins to doubt the legitimacy of notes from Sherlock Holmes.

     John Watson was currently on his hands and knees digging through the room that once belonged to Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. Beside him was a small cardboard box, labeled  ‘Experiment Fingers,’ half filled with a few important items from Sherlock’s room. Included, on the top, was a framed picture [see notes] of John and Sherlock from when they investigated the H.O.U.N.D., taken by Lestrade. It had been sitting, pleasantly faced inwards towards the bed, on Sherlock’s  bedside table.

     John’s phone buzzed, falling off of the bedside table with a clunk, and he dragged his head out from under Sherlock’s bed. Dust sprinkled on John’s beige knit jumper and greying hair, he snatched the phone from beside him with his right hand, patting the fluff off himself with his left. It was Mycroft.

    _John, a car will be outside in 5 minutes. I suggest you be waiting when it does._

_\- MH_

     John checked the time, 1:55 p.m. He still had a few places to dig through, but that could be done later. He let out an exasperated breath, looking around Sherlock’s old room that John had torn apart. It was still organized, just a bit messy, with piles scattered around.

     John pushed himself up, one hand on the bed with sheets still crinkled from whenever Sherlock had last laid upon it. Putting his phone in his jacket pocket, John grabbed his cane that was leaning against a bedpost. This cane was different, newer, from the one John had a year ago. His other had sat in a corner of 221B, though he hadn’t seen it when he walked in. The doctor assumed it had been removed or something by Mrs. Hudson, but he wouldn’t question it.

     John bent down, leg stiffening, and plucked the small box from the ground. He stared at the top picture for a moment. The date was scribbled in the corner by Sherlock. John scrunched his eyebrows together, then observed the side of the box with ‘Experiment Fingers’ written on it. Both by Sherlock, yet they did not look exactly like the two notes he received.

      _Maybe it’s a prank, someone trying to toy with my emotions. Bloody Hell, how did I not see this coming._

     John had been so thrilled inside to see a sign that Sherlock was alive, that he didn’t stop to think if they were real or not. He wanted them to be real, he wanted to believe Sherlock was still alive and waiting for the right moment to pop back into his life.

     John began hobbling out of the detective’s old bedroom and down to the sitting room. He  ought to cover the hole in the window before he left, at least with a piece of cardboard or something. He checked his phone, 1:58, no time. He gently picked up Sherlock’s violin and placed it and it’s bow in the box.

     With a nod to the flat, the doctor descended to the front door.  Looking more depressed than when he had arrived, John pried the black door open, balancing a box and cane in one hand, and pushed out into the cold, sprinkling day. He squinted at the bright grey skies, glimpsing the old man still ( _why is he there?_ ) sitting on the bench across the street.

     John was waiting a mere thirty seconds when a sleek, black car pulled up in front of him. The same lovely, brunette women that greeted him the first time he was driven to meet Mycroft stepped out of the car. Fiddling with her phone, she gestured for John to get in. The doctor walked around the other side of the car and sat in. With the box snuggled closely to John’s chest, and cane resting on the space between him and the woman, John eyed the ginger-grey haired man once more before the car took off. The old man stared back, but John didn’t look away. Behind the wrinkles and bushy eyebrows, John saw a frustrated young person, wanting to burst out. Of course, this was all metaphorical, but nevertheless John was the hurt in his eyes that sparkled with tears.

     The car drove off, forcing the doctor to peel his eyes of the elder man. He continued to watch the city fly by, but was swimming in his thoughts.

    _God, what if it was a joke and someone out there is laughing at my pain? Damn this world, this fucked up society, this whole damn situation._ John exhaled sharply, irritating himself. _I swear if Mycroft has brought me out to wherever he is just to take this box and send me on my way with no information I will punch his smug face._

     Thirty or so minutes passed and John was blissfully unaware of where they car was taking him. He was too busy in his mind, making up stories about elves and hobbits. These stories took a dramatic twist to what he should do next, keep or sell 221B Baker Street? It was an expensive flat with too many memories, but it was a comfortable place. Maybe take up double shifts at the hospital to pay for it, borrow money from Mycroft. John also thought about getting a pet to keep him company, maybe a dog. Sherlock had objected to getting one, but John needed to have a friend there for him.

     The car halted before John could pick exactly what the new friend would look like. Outside of an iron gate, surrounded by trimmed hedges and protecting a huge victorian house. Within a second the gates opened and the car shuffled on a stone paved driveway, pulling up in front of the white mansion. A suited man, leaning on an umbrella, stood atop the marble stairs of the house.

_Oh... My... God..._

     John was gaping as the car door was opened by a butler.

     “Holy... Jesus, Mycroft is this your house?” John blurted, eyes wandering over all the place, slowly limping his way to the stairs.

     “John, yes, how good to see you too,” Mycroft scrunched his nose a bit and put on a feigned smile.  He put a hand up to stop John from trying to hobble any farther, and gracefully floated down the steps.

  _What am I doing here?_ John questioned himself, leaning to his right on his cane, with the ‘Experiment Fingers’ box tucked under his left arm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture of John and Sherlock:[Here](https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTgIbWFxriv48kxPIE2Wj_e6PqERXqWVe7Jyz9piAAZrj6VZPoo)


	4. The Beginnings of Afternoon Tea With Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson and Mycroft start to have afternoon tea.

     Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, glided down the white marble staircase of his extensive white house to greet John Hamish Watson. John was standing at the bottom of the staircase, leaning on his cane, holding a cardboard box with a few things of Sherlock’s from 221B. Mycroft still bore his scrunched nose and feigned smile, but pity was in his eyes. He knew something John did not know, and it would remain that way for a while.

     “Afternoon, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft started, planting himself in front of John. “Pleasure to have you at my estate.”

     “Mycroft,” John nodded, the sleek, black car behind him began to pull away down the stone driveway while another arrived and went around the house, but he made nothing of it. The butler that had helped John out of the car now reached for the box labeled 'Experiment Fingers’ that was tucked under his arm. On instinct, John pulled back the box, shifting his head back and forth between Mycroft and the butler. His brow furrowed, a small frown appeared, and the doctor stood up straighter. 

     “John, if you would be so kind as to entrust my servant with the goods I asked you to acquire,” Mycroft lowered his head, as he had done countless times to his younger brother, Sherlock Holmes, with a do-what-I-told-you-to-do eye glare.

     John’s eyes dropped to the box, the picture of him and Sherlock visible behind the violin, but after a few moments reluctantly handed over the package to the butler. The butler gave a slight “hmph” under his breath and scurried away. John’s eyes followed his as he departed up the staircase, as if to make sure the items would be okay.

     “Yes, well, Dr. Watson, may I invite you inside for some tea?” Mycroft shifted off his umbrella and pointed it towards a door, made of glass with white lattice, next to the stairs.

     “Yea, sure, why not,” John answered. He hobbled after Mycroft, who had already started walking, towards the glass door. _Probably going in here so I wouldn’t have to struggle up the stairs, how oddly kind of Mycroft._

     When the two approached, another butler opened the door from the inside. John was immediately struck by a wave of warm air the smelt of sweet cakes and melted cheese. The floor made of a light pink tile, walls of golden, a large chandelier dangling from the ceiling; this was not what John had expected in Mycroft’s home. It appeared to be a tea room, probably for get-togethers, and was made to hold about 15 people, so it was cozy.

     The boys followed the butler to a table in the middle of the room; Holmes striding and Watson gawking at everything. The table could hold four or five, but it was strewn with cakes, sandwiches, and fruits. The butler pulled out a chestnut chair with cream head and bottom cushions, which Mycroft sat gracefully in (“Thank you, Damian”). Then John was offered the seat directly across from him, which he accepted with a nod (“Thanks, mate”). John rested his cane of the side of the white tablecloth covered table. The butler took up both white napkins on the table and placed them on each man’s lap.

      _What the bloody Hell is going on._

     Damian began pouring tea (“Two creams, one sugar, mate”) while Mycroft also began to talk, placing a golden tea cake on his eggshell white plate.

    _I feel like I’m at the Mad Hatter’s tea party._

     “John,” Holmes started, taking a sip of his tea. “I know you probably have questions and concerns but-” John interrupted, coming back to himself more.

     “Just what exactly am I doing here? Why am I having tea, with you, in your house? If this has to do with a case, trust me, Mycroft, I’m not like... him. I can’t do... that.” John’s eyes fluttered around at the foodstuffs on the table in front of him, looking for a distraction. “Also, there was a picture in that box I gave to your butler, would you mind-” Interrupted.

     “Yes, John, send you a copy,” Mycroft said, irritated. He took a deep breath and put on another forced smile. “This visit isn’t about him, Dr. Watson, it’s about you.”  
John looked up from the mini quiche he was in the process of biting. His head tilted to one side.

  _It’s always about Sherlock, though._


	5. Tea and Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft have tea, and discuss something John needs a day or so to think about.

     John Watson bit into his mini quiche and placed it back on his eggshell white plate, slowly, head still tilted. He looked almost scared.

      _What could Mycroft possibly want with me?!_

     “Yes, John, I have a job offering for you,” Mycroft hesitated before taking another bite of his golden tea cake, pondering whether he should eat so much.

     John’s head tilted more, gawping, eyes squinted, lost for words. He started to form the word ‘what?’ but couldn’t get past the w.

     “You have proven to be a loyal person, whom I, and the British government, can trust to keep a secret.”

     “I-I don’t see where you are going with this, Mycroft,” John stammered out, leaning towards Holmes, with his forearms resting on the edge of the table.

     “When secret government projects are put into play, sometimes things go amiss. People get injured. We can’t have doctors spilling out our plans to terrorists and the like for their own reward.” He sipped his tea, leaning back into his chair. “I believe I know you well enough to conclude that you would not do such a thing, and since one of our doctors recently passed, the position is open.” Mycroft made a quick smile, but get his eyes on his tea cup.

     “Is that... it? Are you not going to tell me anything else?” John wanted more information, why he had to bring Sherlock’s things, why couldn’t he keep them?

     “I’ll tell you more once you accept the offering. It pays well, Doctor, so you will be able to remain at 221B Baker Street,” Mycroft looked up to John, raised his eyebrows and shifted his head to give John the do-what-I-tell-you-to-do glare.

     “But what about the-” John cut himself off. He was about to ask about the two notes he had received, if Mycroft had gotten them too, if they were real. But, if they were fake, John didn’t want to make a desperate fool out of himself in front of Mycroft. John swallowed down the question, sat up tall in his chair and pushed his chin up.

     Mycroft noticed the change in body language and responded by retracting the glare.

     “A car will be at 221B Baker Street on Monday at 8am sharp. If you want the job, simply get inside, and you will be given the necessary information.”

    _Whoa._

     “It’s time for you to move on to bigger and better things, Doctor Watson. Distract yourself from the past,” Mycroft spoke to John, becoming a bit too personal for John’s liking.

     John took a deep breath to bring himself back to Earth and turned his head away from Mycroft, looking at the golden wall and white lattice window hidden behind an eggshell white draped curtain.

     “Thank you, Mycroft, for your offer. I will... get back to you on it.”

     Mycroft checked his watch. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. “Well, I apologize John, but I have an important meeting soon that I can’t miss.” Mycroft lifted himself up from his chair, buttoning the middle of his suit together. “8am sharp,” he ended, gave a nod, and left the room (“Damian will see you out, John”).

     John suddenly heard the faint playing of a violin. It was quick paced, almost angry and depressed sounding. Frustrated, fighting, crying, and yelling notes crawled their way out of the invisible violin. They reflected how John felt on the inside, conflicted and confused. They reminded him of Sherlock.

     Just as John was about to go into a crazy string of manic depressive thoughts, Damian appeared.

     “Sir, a car is waiting out front for you.”

     “Of course it is, always is,” John threw the rest of his tea back, placed the tea cup down, and snatched his cane. He followed Damian, hobbling, out to the same black car with the same brunette woman .

     The butler opened the car door and John got in, plopping himself down with a sigh.

     “See you around, mate,” John said as Damian closed the door (“So long, sir”).

     The doctor leaned his cane against the seat and took his usual spot of staring out the window for the next thirty minutes.

     The car pulled away, the huge victorian house growing smaller and smaller. The rest of the world blurred around John as he was left with his thoughts.

    _Working for Mycroft? Car coming on Monday? What day is it, Saturday? I guess I could spend tomorrow clearing out the flat, if I am to stay. Why did he want Sherlock’s stuff, why couldn’t I keep it, he was my friend. I wonder how much it actually does pay, if it’s enough to cover the flat how much will I have left over? Should I redecorate? Buy a new fridge since the old one’s had so many dead things inside it. About that dog, maybe a bulldog, name it Humphrey. Yea, I like that name. Or maybe something that is hypoallergenic, something that doesn’t shed or make a mess. Obviously something small, too. What should I do for dinner tonight? Maybe I’ll cook something I can eat for the next few days, or maybe have dinner with Mrs. Hudson. She always did make good meals. I think I drank too much tea, now I have to use the loo. Maybe I should get a magazine subscription, keep in the know. Oh I’ll have to resign from the hospital. Was that a hobo I just saw? Chicken, that sounds good tonight. Maybe I’ll invite Greg or Sarah, over or out. I am kind of lonely, in an empty flat. God I miss Sherlock. Such a prick, but something about him was comforting. Can’t remain too long on Sherlock thoughts, I might break down crying again. But I am a soldier, I can handle myself._


	6. Company in a Dusty Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just cleaning up the flat before dinner.

     The sleek, black car Mycroft Holmes had sent John Watson in pulled up alongside the curb of 221B Baker Street.

     “Well, nice seeing you again, I guess,” John turned his face towards the brunette women immersed in her phone. She responded with an acknowledging ‘hm’ noise.

     John let out a soft chuckle.

_Why do I even bother._

     He pressed the door open to a dimming day, 221B esoteric against the grey stones around it. John snatched his cane and, with a grunt, was out of the car. He slammed the door shut, not looking at it, and was at once hobbling towards the golden knocker.

    _Maybe having dinner with Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be bad. I could tell her about my day, eat her delicious food. Yea, might as well._

     Pushing the door open, the doctor called out for the landlady.

     “Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson are you home?” He expected a response to come from the lower door, but instead it came from up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was upstairs in John’s flat.

     “Yes, deary, just doing some dusting is all!” Came a shrill voice from above.

     Confused, furrowing his brow and sucking his bottom lip in, John shuffled up the creaking, worn staircase.

     It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

     “Mrs. Hudson,” John shouted, almost fully up to the flat. “I don’t really have any plans tonight, and I am rather lonely. Would you mind if I joined you for dinner?” John reached the doorway to the sitting room.

     There was Mrs. Hudson, attempting to quell the disorganized mess that was Sherlock’s workspace. She was hunched over a hefty pile of manila folders when the doctor walked in.

     “Oh John, deary, I’m really sorry but I’ve already got plans with some girls from the hairdresser’s tonight.”

     John sighed. _Guess it’s chinese food alone with Doctor Who._

     “Oh, by the way, John, that lady friend of yours, Sarah, she stopped by earlier while you were away. She was worried about you. Why don’t you call her up, go to that new Italian place down the road?” Mrs. Hudson had stopped organizing, and instead leaned on the stack of papers, head cocked with a soft smile on her lips.

     John’s eyes fluttered around the room. His lips formed the word ‘oh’, but he didn’t actually say it.

     “Yea, yea, I guess I could. Haven’t talked to her in a bit,” John reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone. He scrolled through the contacts, clicked Sarah Sawyer, and waited till she picked up. He wandered away to the space between the stairs and sitting room to make the call more private.

     “Hello?”

     “Hey, Sarah, it’s John.”

     “Oh John! Did your landlady say that I stopped by? I was just checking in on you, is all.”

     “Yea, she did, and she proposed that I call you and ask you to dinner. At that new Italian restaurant near Baker Street. Just to talk, have company.”

     “Sure, John, that sounds lovely! I get off at six today, so how about seven?”

     “Perfect.”

     “Good, I’ll see you there John.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re doing fine?”

     John took a deep breath. “Yes, better actually, after having a chat with someone. Got things to tell you Sarah, can’t wait for tonight.”

     “See you, then.”

     “Later” John hung up.

     John exhaled through pursed lips and raised his eyebrows.

      _It’s not a date, calm down._

     John hadn’t really ‘gone out’ with a friend (that wasn’t Sherlock) in a while.

     “Okay, Mrs. Hudson!” John limped back into the sitting room doorway. “I’ve got a few hours till dinner with Sarah, what can I help you with?”

     “Oh, there’s all sorts of things to be tidied up around here. You left an awful mess of Sherlock’s room, you know, piles of clothes everywhere,” they both chuckled. “Why don’t I work on that, and you can flip through these files or wash the dishes. Whatever you like, deary!” At that, Mrs. Hudson was off to Sherlock’s bedroom in a flurry of pink and purple.

     John made his way over to the hill of paperwork.

  _Anything but dishes._

     The doctor began to flip through the folders, most old cases he and Sherlock had solved. Well, it was mostly Sherlock doing the solving, but John had typed it up on his blog and provided the detective someone to talk aloud to.

    _I remember this one, about the rabbit._ John chuckled to himself. _Wow, these go all the way back to before I met him._

     John picked a folder, unmarked, out of the bunch. Inside was a one piece of lined paper. In the middle of the paper it said, in swooping, black letters:

    _I’m not suicidal, I feel like I’m already dead._

     Taken aback, John placed the paper and folder down on the table, tilting his head in befuddlement. He assumed it was probably from an old case John never heard about, but the words still hit him.

    _That’s... That’s how I feel. Like I’m already gone._ John felt his eyes water. _No John! You are a strong man! You can overcome this! You are a soldier!_

     At this, John closed the folder. He carried it with him as he hobbled to the kitchen. He threw the folder away, exhaling furiously. He was done with all this depression, all this anger.

    _Done, time to move on, get on with life. Take the job, meet new people, get a dog, redecorate, forget. Forget, forget, forget, and move one!_

     He slammed his palm on the table, letting out a ‘arrrgh!’ as he did.

     “John?” Mrs. Hudson called in concern.

     “Fine, Mrs. Hudson, just fine,” John hurriedly called back, a little too much huff in his words.

  _I’ll just do the dishes then. Anything but remembering._

     And so, John got to work cleaning every single cup, spoon, plate or whatever in the kitchen he could find.

 


	7. Dinner with Sarah Sawyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has dinner with Sarah Sawyer.

     John Watson stood in front of the mirror that above his dresser. He ran his hands along the opening of his jacket, which covered a navy checkered button down. It was a casual dinner, so he wore jeans, but he still wanted to look nice. Standing up straight, John gave himself a nod of acceptance. He turned and made his way towards the doorway, but stopped next to his bedside table to grab his wallet. When the doctor reached down, he noticed a picture framed, facing inwards at the bed. It was a photograph of him and Sherlock, different from the one that had been in the detective’s room. [see notes]

     Taken by Lestrade during the H.O.U.N.D. case, the pair were sitting down on a bench, a few people, trees, and fancy buildings behind them. Sherlock looked like a child, beaming as if he just discovered new presents under the Christmas tree. John was leaning into him, so their arms overlapped. He had his hands wrapped around a mug, and looked less ecstatic than the man next to him, almost uncomfortable, but he knew he had been happy at the time. All in all, it was one of the few pleasant photos of them.

     John snatched his wallet with his left hand and smacked the frame down so it lay flat with only its back visible with the same hand.

      _Forget, forget, forget, and move on._

     He stuffed the wallet in his coat pocket, took a deep breath, turning his head away from the bedside table. With that he walked out of the room.

     He checked his watch; it was 6:45 pm. Just enough time to walk to the restaurant.

     Mrs. Hudson had left forty-five minutes ago to meet her friends somewhere, so John had no one to say goodbye to as he hobbled out of the door of 221B Baker Street.

     The doctor made his way, limping with his cane, down Baker Street. He walked for about half a minute before hailing a cab; he couldn’t walk all the way to the restaurant with his leg.

     The cabbie was a bit befuddled that John had gotten a cab for a five minute walk, but he said nothing.

     The drive took about two minutes. John stepped out of the cab, paid, and walked to the door of the restaurant. The restaurants name, written above the door in white letters, was Sentimenti. The door was cherry wood on the bottom half and a window on top.

     Pushing through, John was greeted with soft, yellow hanging lights and a cherry wood floor.

     He walked to the podium with the hostess; a young, blonde girl, hair in a bun and dressed in all black.

     “Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

     “Uh, no, I don’t, how long is the wait for two people?”  


     “About ten minutes sir, would you like me to put you down on the waiting list?”

     John checked his watch; 6:51 pm. “Yea, sure, under ‘John’.”

     The hostess penned John in and handed him a menu to look over while he waited.  


     The doctor sat down, exhaling sharply and leaning his cane up against the small table beside the four-person cushioned bench. The red pleather squeaked underneath him.

    _Not the nicest restaurant, but Sarah won’t mind._

     John began looking over the menu, not concerned with price. Everything was under 20£, and with his new job, money should start flowing in a bit quicker.

    _Oh yea, I have to tell Sarah I’m resigning tomorrow. God, how will she take it? It’s not like I was ever a full time worker, I won’t be missed, right? What if they’re low on staff, then what, maybe I-_

     At that moment, Sarah walked in and plopped next to John.

     “Oh, Sarah, hi!” John said, coming out of his trance. He checked his watch; 6:59 pm.

     “Didn’t mean to interrupt your deep thinking, John.” They both laughed.

     “Oh, uhm, we got a few minutes to wait.”

     “Well, that’s alright, just have a look at the menu, then.” John handed the menu to Sarah, and they sat in a comfortable silence for a couple minutes.

     “John, party of two!” The hostess called out.

     “Ah, that would be us!” The doctor reached for his cane and stood up, Sarah followed.

     They were led to a window table on the left of the restaurant, two wood chairs with a green tablecloth. The hostess handed John his own menu, since Sarah still had the other, and told them their waiter would be over soon.

     “That limp coming back to you, is it?” Sarah said, not looking up from her menu.

     “What? Oh, uhm, yea... Had it for a couple weeks now,” John responded. His glanced at his cane, then turned his head and stared out the window.

     “Are you going to your therapist again?” Sarah looked up, concern written on her face.

     “Tuesdays, 5 in the evening.”

     “Well, that’s good. If you think it’ll help.” Pause. “You know I’m here for you too, John.” She placed her menu down.

     John shifted his head to look back at her, trying to hide the depressed feeling he had. He was about to say something when the waiter came over; Vincent.

     “Can I get you two anything to drink?”

     Both got water and a beer. John hadn’t been into drinking beer as much when Sherlock was around, as the detective insisted wine was superior. But he was out with a friend, and felt down, so beer it was.

     For the next forty minutes, Sarah and John ordered food (John got chicken parm, Sarah shrimp), talked about their lives (“A dog?” “Yea, maybe name him Humphrey”), and laughed (“You’ll never guess what happened at the hospital today!”).

     The pair decided to get coffees and desserts because they were having too much fun to leave.

      _I’ve got to tell her. Got to bring it up._

     Sarah was in the middle of taking a sip of her coffee, John picking at his cheesecake, when John blurted it out.

     “Sarah I’m resigning from the hospital.”

     She lowered her cup slowly. “What for John, are you going to leave London?”

     “No, I’m staying here, but,” he paused, looking anywhere but Sarah. “I’ve been offered another position, with the government. It’s better pay, and I could use a change, and-”

     “John, that’s wonderful,” she reached out and placed her hand on his. It was warm and soft, like a mother’s. John stared up at her amazed. “It’s perfectly fine,” she chuckled. “I’m glad you’re moving on, to bigger and better things. We can always talk to each other, don’t worry. I’m not mad or anything, I’m happy for you!” Sarah retracted her hand and took a bite out of her chocolate cake.

     “Oh, well, in that case,” the doctor smiled, then the two laughed.

     They finished their food, John had leftovers to bring home, and split the check. They were friends, just friends, and that was perfectly fine with both of them.

     They went their separate ways out of Sentimenti, hugs and cheek kisses.

     John was relatively happy for the first time in a couple weeks, and he hadn’t thought about Sherlock the whole dinner. He was moving on, and he was okay with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photograph: [HERE](http://yourfavouritechild.tumblr.com/post/39140601465/dinner-with-sarah-sawyer-chapter-photograph)


	8. A Very Ordinary Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson seriously thinks about getting a dog.

     John Watson stepped into the dark sitting room of 221B Baker Street; He carried a plastic bag with leftover chicken parm in his left hand, and his cane in his right. He flipped the light switch on with with his left, and notice the same empty flat that he left at 6:45 pm that same day. It was currently 8:34 pm. The doctor was exhausted, stuffed, and quite content.

_Time for tea and the telly._

     John hobbled into the kitchen, placing his leftovers in the recently cleaned out fridge. He put some water on to boil then made his way to his own bedroom.

     John fell onto the bed with a moan. 

_What an interesting day I had; cleaning with Mrs. Hudson, tea with Mycroft, dinner with Sarah._

     John kicked off his shoes, flung his jacket off, unbuttoned his shirt. He pressed himself up and stripped his jeans off. He stood comfortably in pants, a white t-shirt covered by his hanging navy checkered button down. The doctor was alone, in the flat, ready to settle into his armchair for the evening. The loneliness was still new, the distressing sensation fading, but John couldn’t help but feel abandoned.

    _Forget, forget, forget, and move on._

     John limped to his dresser and dragged out a pair of pajama bottoms, cotton and striped. Slowly, he pulled them on.

     The doctor ended up back in the kitchen, pouring the boiling water into his tea cup.

     He then unhurriedly shuffled into the sitting room, resting in his red armchair and leaning his cane against it’s side. John took a sip of his steaming tea then set it down on the small table next to him. He reached for the remote and flipped on the telly. Random shows about random peoples lives flashed on the screen, though he wasn’t remotely interested.The television was situated behind his chair, but John turned it on for background noise, now that he thought about it.

_Maybe I’ll just surf the internet._

     John reached underneath his chair for his laptop. He blew the thin layer of dust off and opened it up.

_Oh, I know what to look up._

     Once turned and logged on, John looked up nearby animal shelters. He found one in London. He shifted through their list of dogs, and stopped when he came upon a funny looking pug.

     His name was Edward, or Eddie for short. 3 months old, housebroken, and happy as can be. He was endearing, bug eyed and wrinkly, a smile on his face. Currently available for adoption.

     John immediately beamed at the sight of him. A link on the sidebar said appointments could be set up for potential adoptive parents. The doctor clicked it and filled out all the required fields. He would meet the little pup at noon tomorrow, which was Sunday.

     John sipped his tea, lukewarm now but he didn’t care.

      _Finally, company here. Another living thing to brighten up the room and distract my mind. Ah, yes! I can’t wait!_

     John snapped his laptop shut and tucked it under his arm. The telly was still babbling on behind him, so he turned that off as well.

_Time for a quick shower, then off to bed._

     It was 9:10 pm, but John planned on reading up on pugs, puppies, etc before actually falling asleep.

     The doctor, therefore, shoved himself up out of the seat, grabbing his cane. He left his tea where it was while he went off to shower.

     John Watson was a starting to become happier again. He was forgetting.


	9. A Frightening Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has a nightmare.

_Total darkness, just a faint whisper, like someone was choking._

 

_‘John...’_

 

_John could feel his head turning frantically side to side, running, searching for that voice._

_‘Sherlock!’ He yelled back at the voice._

_‘John...’ The deep voice whispered again._

_John turned his head and saw a dim lamp post in the distance, a shadowy figure below it, bent over on hands and knees._

_‘Sherlock!’ John ran for the figure, but no matter how hard he tried be barely moved._

_The bent figure lifted it’s head; it was Sherlock. His expression broken, blood spilling from his mouth as he choked out the doctor’s name._

_John somehow reached him, standing just outside the ring of yellow light given off of the lamp post above._

_‘John... help... me...’ Sherlock’s eyes were wide, lower lip quivering, tears beginning to run down his red cheeks. He lifted a limp hand, grasping for aid._

_John reached out his own hand, but a tall man in a grey suit stepped between the two._

_‘John!’ Sherlock spluttered from behind the man, who held his arms out so John could not get to the detective._

_‘Sherlock!’ Suddenly more tall men stepped in front of John, pushing him back. They were all Mycroft._

_‘Time to move on, John,’ they kept repeating._

_‘John...’ the voice grew fainter as more Mycroft’s slipped between the pair._

_‘Sher...’ A Mycroft put his hand over John’s mouth._

_‘Time to move on, John,’ and he gave John a push backwards._

_John stumbled, then fell, and kept falling, everything turning black again._

_“Sherlock!” He called out._

_The Mycroft’s stood around the pit John was falling down into, becoming smaller and farther away._

     “Sherlock!” John screamed, bolting up straight in his bed. He dripped with a mix of sweat and tears. He was breathing fast, eyes pulled wide.

     Erratic breathing, the doctor’s eyes fluttered around the room, coming back to reality. He leaned back onto his hands, placing his left over his heart.

     “Jesus...” He breathed out. John swallowed hard and reached out to click the small lamp on that sat on his bedside table. He glanced at the clock next to the lamp, it was 2:27 am.

     But wait, John hadn’t picked up the picture frame. Had he?

     Chest still heaving, John leaned over to the table and slammed the picture down again.

_So much for forgetting._

     He tilted his head back, staring at his headboard for a minute. Then, John lifted his head and gazed out the window in front of him.

      Wait, the window hadn’t been open, had it? Maybe Mrs. Hudson heard him and opened it, or maybe John was sleepwalking, or maybe John had opened it before getting into bed.

      John fell back onto his pillows, wet with sweat, he covered his face with his hands.

      “Ahgrahhhh!” John gave out a muffled screaming moan. He slapped his hands to the parts of the bed next to his body with a thump.

_Fuck you, Sherlock. Why did you have to go do that? Why did you have to jump and leave me? Why did you- No. Forget, forget, forget, and move on._

     John sat up and clicked the lamp off, then falling back onto the pillows.

     He rolled over to his side, away from the shamed photograph. John tucked his hands under his head, laying with a frustrated expression. He looked angry, but his eyes water.

     Eventually, stressed as he was, the doctor fell back to sleep.

 


	10. Lazy Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simple morning time.

     John Watson rolls over in his bed with a groan. He lifts his right hand to his head, eyes still closed.

     “Ohhh...” he moans in pain.

    _My back, my neck, my head, my everything._

     He leans on his left elbow, slowly opening his eyes. A slight breeze was pouring in from the window across from his bed, with sunlight draping the ground.

     John then remembered his dream, nightmare actually; hurt Sherlock, unable to help, multiple Mycrofts, and falling into a black pit. He looked down, his white t-shirt stained with sweat at the neck and armpits, sheets twisted. The doctor glanced at the clock beside his bed, 8:02 am. He would be visiting the animal shelter in a few hours.

     John let out a hefty sigh, raising his eyebrows and stretching his eyes out. He didn’t want to leave the questionable comfort of his bed, but the loo was calling him and his stomach rumbled. 

     With an indistinct, throaty grumble, John wriggled out of bed. He rubbed his eyes, snatched his cane and headed for the bathroom.

     After relieving himself, he washed his hands. Staring back at him in the mirror was a man he didn’t recognize as much as he did a month ago. Larger bags under his sunken eyes, no light behind them, a frown always tugging at the corners of his lips. The doctor splashed cold water on his face, then patted it dry. A thunderous roar came from his midsection.

_Leftovers for breakfast, I guess._

     The inside of the fridge smelt like dead things, cleaning products and chicken.

     The leftovers from dinner with Sarah last night at Sentimenti were still in the plastic bag John had carried them home in. Grabbing a clean plate from the cabinet, John dumped his surplus chicken parmigiana onto it, then threw out the packaging. He placed a fork on his plate and hobbled over to the work desk. He was about to sit down to his breakfast when something on the window caught his eye. John put the plate down on the table, head cocked and brow furrowed. 

     There was a piece of printer paper taped over the hole in the window. John shuffled over to get a closer look. It read:

    _Tell Mycroft to fix ASAP._

     “Where...” The doctor questioned the origin of the note. Then he remembered the window and assumed it was Mrs. Hudson again. He made a mental note to ask her about the happenings later. 

     Shrugging it off, John limped to grab the remote. He flipped on the telly, Doctor Who was beginning. 

      _Perfect, I’ve got two hours to relax with Doctor Who._

     John sat down in the chair at the table that faced the telly, dragging his plate to be in front of him and leaning his cane against the wall. It was currently 8:12 am as John began to ingest his chicken breakfast alone in 221B.

 


	11. An Appointment with Edward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson gets a dog.

     John Watson snatched his jacket that hung on the back of the kitchen chair. He threw it on his person, then picked up his cane that rested against the kitchen table. He patted his jean pockets.

_Wallet, phone, keys, check, check, check. Off to meet Edward at the kennel._

     The corners of his mouth were already beginning to tug upwards. Sparks of excitement travelled through John as he almost walked normally down the stairs and to the front door of 221B Baker Street.

     “Ah, Mrs. Hudson!” John hailed her, she walking into her flat and he shuffling down the stairs.

     “Oh, yes, afternoon John,” she smiled sweetly. A pop of pink scarf stood out against her tan sweater. One hand on the knob of her door that was half open.

     “Mrs. Hudson did you come into my flat last night?” John tilted his head, looking at her as if asking a small child if they had done a bad thing.

     “Why would you-” Mrs. Hudson looked just as confused as John did, then something clicked in her head and she stopped herself. Suddenly her face lit up, mouth forming an O, eyebrows raised, brown eyes wide open. “Oh, yes, I, uh- I heard you last night, yelling in your sleep. Felt the need to check up on you. Are you okay, deary?” Her eyebrows fell and mouth relaxed.

     “Yes, I’m fine,” he said quickly and waved a hand. “So, you opened the window in my room?” John gestured upstairs with his left hand. “And typed the note on the broken window in the sitting room?” He looked like didn’t believe her but wanted to.

     “Yes, of course, John, these doors are locked at night, you know,” concern was written on her face.

     “Right,” John shifted his head away and stared at the floor. “Well, okay then,” he looked up at the landlady. “Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” the doctor flashed a smile and nodded. He turned and headed for the door.

     “Have a good day, deary,” Mrs. Hudson watched him turn, her hands clasped together, then scurried into her flat muttering things to herself with her hands thrown in the air.

      John Watson opened the scratched door of 221B out to Baker Street. He squinted as the sun shone directly above him, as it was about 11:34 in the morning. He held his left hand up to block the sun and stepped out, closing the black painted wood behind him. Not many cars were on the road, nor many people walking around. John walked, less pressure on his cane than he usually had, to the edge of the sidewalk and flagged down a cab.

     Seated in the cab, John’s stomach fluttered a bit. He was excited about getting a dog, being around animals. He hadn’t had a pet since he was younger, and he longed for company at the flat. The whole ride the doctor watched the city of London blur around him, lost in his thoughts. He felt like a little kid again.

      _We can sit together on the couch, relax together, I can feed him, and pet him, and play with him. And he can be there, follow me everywhere, look at me with those puppy eyes._

     

     The cab pulled up alongside a two-story white building, trees surrounded by little rocks in front. John paid the cabby (“Thanks, mate”), and stepped out into sun. The air was a mix of leaves and animal fur, but the warm breeze was welcoming. John ventured on toward the two glass automatic doors. As he walked through, the quiet breeze and sidewalk turned into the yaps and tweets of creatures, yellows lights, and linoleum floors. A old tabby snoozed on the reception desk, signs on the walls pointed to reptiles and rats, and a tall man in a long, black coat retreated down the halls with a fluffy, white cat resting it’s head on the man’s shoulder. A young woman, brown hair in a messy bun and cat cartoon scrubs on, was seated behind the reception desk.

     “Afternoon sir, may I help you?” She looked up from her paperwork and smiled pleasantly, petting the tabby. The clock behind her on the wall read 11:48. John was early, but that was okay, he could look at the kittens for ten minutes.

     “Yes, hi, I have an appointment for noon to meet a pup,” he walked towards her, almost not using his cane. He stroked the cat as well, feeling its soft brown fur and its purring under his fingers; it was a relaxing sensation.

     “Okay,” she took a second and flipped through some book on her desk. “Ah, yes, John... Warson, is it?” She furrowed her brow, head tilted.

     “Ah, Watson, actually,” his lips twitched into a smile.

     “Sorry, Karen was filling this in and she never writes nicely,” a genuine smile spread across her face and she leaned against her forearms on the desk. “It says your appointment is for 12, but I think we can take you a bit early.” She winked and leapt from her chair, walked around the desk to lead John. “Follow me!” She motioned toward the hall the man had walked down earlier, and turned to go down it. John followed, shuffling to get next to her. She wore purple scrub pants, and John half smiled at this, but the woman didn’t notice. Instead she opened a cabinet that was in the hall and pulled out a thin, blue leash.

     “I’m Abbey, by the way,” she looked at John, then pointed down a side hallway. “Dogs are just around here.”

     The two headed through a thick glass door, and an overwhelming scent of canine rushed at them. John gave a little cough at this. Various pitches of barking ensued, from growls to yips. Abbey directed the doctor down a row of cages and stopped at the 2nd from last, as the last was empty. Inside, standing at the bars of his cage, a small wrinkly face stared up at the two humans; with a black muzzle and ears, a tan coat, and curly pig tail. A clipboard hung from chest height. It read:

  _Name: Edward, or Eddie_  
 _Sex: Male_  
 _Age: 3 Months_  
 _Breed: Pug_  
 _Personality: Even-tempered, playful, loving_  
 _Addt. Info: Housebroken, Neutered, Okay with other pets and children_

     Abbey bent down and the Pug went to her. “Hello, Eddie! Looks like you might just go home today!” Eddie seemed to smile at this, his tongue sticking out. Abbey stood up and unlocked the cage, sliding in and closing the door behind her. Eddie backed up and barked playfully as the woman hooked the leash on his black collar. “Come on, Eddie!” She tugged on his leash as she opened the cage door again.

     Abbey looked up at John, smiling. “There is a room for these kind of things, follow me again!”

     She led the way, will John and Eddie trailing by her side, they left the room of canines. The three ended up in a small room that was off the main hallway; peach walls, a white bench and high up shelf with a bowl of treats. A few small toys were littered on the linoleum floor; a rubber ball, twisted rope, squeaky stuffed duck. Abbey closed the door behind them and unhooked the blue leash from the Pug.

     “Well, if you would like me to stay, I can. If not, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” The corners of her lips tugged upwards and eyes crinkled, her hands were wrapped around the leash in front of her. John gave her a nod that meant it was okay if she left. “Alright then, holler if you need me!” She gave a quick wave and was off, making sure the door was closed behind her.

     Eddie and John stood together for a few seconds before anything happened. John went to pet the Pug and he backed away a step, hesitant as if he was contemplating whether to trust this stranger or not. The doctor snatched a treat from the bowl on the shelf. He moved slowly, bending down, placing his cane on the bench. He held out the treat in his left hand, offering it to Eddie. The Pug leaned forward, smelling if it was safe, gradually making his way to John. The first minute had past and the Pug had taken the treat from the stranger. He dropped the treat on the ground and munched on it. John reached out a hand and gently laid it upon the dog's back. His short hairs were smooth as John ran his hand along the Pug, who did not reject the touch.

     The doctor’s face was beaming, his stomach fluttering with excitement. “Hello, Eddie,” he said as the dog raised his head from the floor. Round brown eyes stared up at him, then his face broke out in a smile and he licked John’s arm.

     The rest of the fifteen minutes was spent playing tug-o-war, fetch (even in the small space), and in the end for the last couple minutes they sat together. Eddie in John’s lap, snuggled up to his stomach.

     Abbey walked in on them like that, and she grinned. 

     “Getting along, are we?” 

     “Love at first bark,” the pair laughed.

     “So, can I take that as Eddie will be getting a new home?”

      John looked down at the Pug in his lap and stroked it’s back. 

      “Yes, yes it does.” 

     “Wonderful!” Abbey clasped her hands together. “In that case, I have paperwork for you to fill out, and Eddie has to get a quick check-up before he leaves.”

 

     The next ten minutes was John signing his initials, filling out forms about his home life, etc. Also, he bought a bag of kibble, food dish, and doggy pick-up bags. Eddie had a favourite toy of his, a round squeaky cow, that was to go home with him as well. 

     John was sitting in the lobby, cane and bag of goodies in one hand, the other resting on his leg. Abbey appeared from long hallway with a trotting little Pug by her side. 

     “John Watson, you are now the proud owner of Edward the Pug!” Abbey smiled widely and handed over the thin blue leash to John, who accepted it in his left. Eddie looking up at the two humans, tongue hanging out.

     “Well, thank you, it’s been a pleasure, see you for his first check-up!”

      Abbey waved goodbye and gave the dog a treat, which he gladly ate.

     “Bye you two, take good care of him!”

     John led Eddie out of animal shelter, though he barked at the automatic doors. When finally outside in the sunlight, the Pug tugged on his leash towards a tree.

     “Best if you go now,” and John let him lead him to a thin tree, where Eddie stuck up his leg and left his scent.

 

     It took a few tries before John found a cab that would allow dogs inside (“221B Baker Street, please”), as long as they didn’t make a mess of course. Eddie had his front paws against the door, hind ones on the seat next to John, and a delighted look on his face. His breathing was loud and rapid, anticipation for his new home and owner. John could only look pleased at his new friend.

    _Yes, friend._ That was what the Pug would become. Not a replacement of Sherlock, but he would fill the void that the doctor felt had dominated his life for the past couple of weeks.

     

     It was nearing one in the afternoon when the cabbie pulled to the side of Baker Street. Having paid and wiped off any slobber or hair that the dog left, John lead his new companion to the ebony door of 221B Baker Street. It’s knocker and numbers, freshly cleaned, reflected the sun above. It’s black paint was wearing, and John made a mental note to repaint it later.

     The doctor clicked the key in the lock and shoved the door open. Mrs. Hudson had heard John enter and came out of her room; a purple apron dusted with flour covered her tan sweater and black skirt, though her pink scarf had disappeared. She patted her unwashed hands against her apron, sending little puffs of white floating into the air.

     “Oh, John, deary, are you back already?” She walked toward the doctor, then her eyes followed the blue leash down to Eddie, who stood promptly beside John. She gasped and raised her hand to her chest. “I didn’t realize you were bringing home a little friend!” Mrs. Hudson’s expression softened and she bent down to stroke the back of Eddie. He growled at first, and started away, but when Mrs. Hudson drew her hand back a bit he stopped. She placed a white palm on his wrinkled head, him loosening before her.

     “Mrs. Hudson, meet Eddie. Eddie, Mrs. Hudson,” John motioned between the two on the ground.

      The Pug licked the landlady, who instantly giggled. She stood up, still smiling at the dog, her hands folded together in front of her. She beamed up at John.

     “Well, deary, he seems like a lovely little chap.” She raised a finger and an eyebrow at the doctor. “Now don’t go and let him make a mess of the place. He does his duties outside!” She waved her finger towards the door.

     “Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” John nodded. “Won’t let him.” He brought her in for a one-armed hug and he kissed her on the cheek. The landlady hadn’t expected this, but gladly accepted.

     “Remember, you can always stop by if you need anything!” She walked backwards towards her door. “And that means for you, too,” she pointed at Eddie, whose tongue was hanging out.

     “Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a smile and a raised hand. The landlady waved at the pair and retreated back into her flat, leaving a trail of white puffs in the air which the sun bounced off of.

     “Come on, Eddie, time to see your new home,” John tugged at Eddie’s leash.

     The dog ran for the stairs, pulling John along with him. The doctor stumbled after him, chuckling and pretending he couldn’t hold him back. Eddie began hopping up the stairs the adorable way Pugs do, the tags on his black collar jingling. John followed (“Alright, Alright, I know you’re excited!”), and they soon arrived at the top of the stairs. John bent down to Eddie, gave him a pat on the head and unhooked the leash.

     Eddie immediately ran towards the two chairs situated near the fireplace and began sniffing around. The doctor leaned his cane against the work table and heaved the bag he was carrying up on it. He stuffed his face inside, dragging out a metal food dish and placing it next to the bag without lifting his head. With more sifting around, John drew out Eddie’s favourite toy of a squeaky cow. He held it up to in front of him, lips tugging upward. He rotated it, observing bite marks and holes.

     “How about we-” John turned to where he had last seen his new friend, still holding up the toy. The smile faded from the doctor’s face and his mouth was frozen open. Eddie had jumped up into the black leather chair, where Sherlock used to curl up in. John hadn’t let anyone sit there since the fall. He slowly lowered the toy, eyes drooping and becoming somber with memory.

_No, forget, forget, forget, move on._

     John took a deep breath, leaning against the work table, as his knees seemed to have gone weak.

     Eddie sat, panting and looking ready to play, and gave a quick yip at the cow in John’s hand. 

    _No, this is okay._

     John stood up straighter, a sort of half smile half frown on his face. He looked at the Pug, who was happy and oblivious to everything that had ever happened in this flat, and the left side of his lip tugged up. John nodded, then waved the round cow horizontally, bending from his hips. Eddie’s eyes followed and his mouth closed, serious about his toy. He barked and jumped down off the black chair, leaving his own imprint that covered the previous one of Sherlock. His tan pig-like tail wiggled as did his bum, bouncing up at John who dangled the ripped cow above the wrinkled head.

_I can get used to this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer and more detailed than usual, I can see my own writing style change...


	12. An Evening to Not Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson receives an phone call, walks his dog, and ends up having flashbacks.

     John Watson lay on his back, feet on the arm of the couch and head propped up on a pillow. He was face so he could watch the telly. Beneath where his feet rested, his shoes had been slipped off and rested, overlapping each other. Socked feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded over his stomach, John was comfortable. In the center of the room, Eddie lay on his stomach, chewing his toy and shaking his head violently, making growling noises ever so often. 

     It was almost eight in the evening and Goldfinger was about to start playing on the telly. John’s phone buzzed, causing him to shift around to wriggle the phone out of his jean pocket. It was a reminder he had set that he had to catch his ride at eight in the morning tomorrow. John looked up from his phone, then down to Eddie, who was still working at his toy.

    _I’ll ask Mycroft,_ John decided.

      _Mycroft, what exactly are my hours for work? Could you at least tell me that?_ John sent.

     He waited a few moments, watching the intro for Goldfinger, before receiving a reply.

_I would like if you stayed till 5:30 pm when you work, though you can leave whenever you wish. 8 am sharp, tomorrow._

     John nodded his head, pleased that his day wasn’t excruciatingly long and that he could technically leave whenever. He sent a quick text back (Thanks, got it) and resumed watching his movie. It was a quiet evening, Eddie eventually tiring of his toy and coming over to jump onto John, who greeted him (“Oof!”) and pet the Pug. John fell asleep within twenty minutes of the movie, Eddie snuggling against his stomach with John’s hand laying atop him.

 

     Suddenly, John’s phone rang, startling the man, who involuntarily pushed Eddie off of him. Eddie fell with a yip, but he was unharmed (“Oh, sorry Eddie, I-”). The doctor rubbed his eye with his left hand and reached for his phone, which he had placed down on the coffee table beside him. It was 8:26 pm and Molly Hooper was calling him. He answered.

     “Hm, yes, hello Molly,” he groaned as he stretched himself out.

     “Oh, sorry John, did I wake you? I can call back if-”

     “No, no, it’s fine,” more out of sleep mode now. “So, what’s up?” He shifted so he was sitting properly, leaning on his knees.

     “Oh, well,” she sounded a bit hesitant. “I was invited to my cousin's wedding in June, and I was wondering if you would be my date to it?” She sounded uneasy. “As just friends, of course!” Molly added quickly.

     John hadn’t been to a wedding in a while, so he responded with “Yeah, sure, actually that sounds lovely.” He could hear Molly smiling on the other end. 

     “Oh, great!” She squealed . “It’s in June, as I said, uhm, the 15th. Sorry for the late notice, and evening phone call, it’s just my Aunt Melissa said that if I didn’t bring a date that she would-” Molly stopped herself. “Oh, nevermind, thank you John! I can just, uhm, text you with the details, I guess? Or something, it’s whatever.”

     John felt Molly’s uncomfortableness and wanted to get off the phone call as soon as he could. “Yes, Molly, sounds fine. I’ll mark that date in my calendar!” They said their goodbyes and hung up. John shuffled through his phone to the calendar. Currently, it was the 19th of May, and the wedding was in about a month. 

     “Might as well get to bed, then,” John said toward Eddie, then yawned. He reached up over his head, stretching. He grabbed the blue leash that lay on the coffee table and summoned Eddie over.

     He clicked the leash on as he said “We’ll go for a quick walk, let you go to the bathroom, then head home for bed!” John patted the Pug on his head, then stood up. He snatched the doggy bags that he had brought home, sitting on the work table, and stuffed them in his pocket along with his phone. Quickly, he clicked the telly off. On his way out with Eddie, he put on his jacket that had been hanging on the hook behind the door. They left 221B for their walk, and John forgot his cane, which remained leaning against the work table.

 

  
     The pair arrive back within ten minutes, Eddie relieved and John ready for bed. He hadn’t notice he forgot his cane till halfway through, when his leg became a bit stiff upon seeing a yellow spray painted smiley face on the side of a building. But he shrugged it off, as he couldn’t do anything by then.

     John unhooked the Pug from his leash, and Eddie ran to his metal water bowl that was on the floor in the kitchen. John hung the leash up, along with his jacket. He put the unused doggy bags in his coat pocket (he had throw out the used ones on their way back). The doctor glanced at his cane, but left it leaning against the work table. Instead, he shut all the lights off in the flat and headed to his room, Eddie following at his heels.

      _Funny,_ John thought, _that I just got Eddie and we’ve already grown attached to each other. I wonder if this happens often, close bonds after such little time. Maybe me and him just clicked, like we needed each other. I needed a friend and he a home. Huh, this sounds a lot like me and-_. He cut his thought of midway, waving a hand in the air at the invisible being, knowing it would lead him down a string of worse thoughts.

     Eddie was constantly sniffing everywhere, and when the reached John’s room he was almost overwhelmed with all the new things. The doctor decided it was safe enough to leave the dog to his own whilst he took a quick shower. Last he saw of Eddie, before John shut the bathroom door, was his his face stuffed into the sheets hanging over the bed and onto the floor.

     The thoughts returned to John, in the shower. He didn’t want to, but he had to deal with them, couldn’t keep pushing them aside. He grabbed the back of his neck with both hands, tilting his head back and being drenched in burning water, surrounded by thick steam that made it hard to breath. But he cherished the moment, alone with himself, so vulnerable and exposed, yet no one could harm him. He was detached, separated from his outer body and left to swim with his thoughts in the torrid cloud that enveloped him. Then, breaking the trance. _Sherlock falling, falling, falling for eternity._ Flashbacks popped in front of his eyes, quick and gone. John held his hands out, leaning against the tiled wall to steady himself. _Sherlock, dead, bleeding out on the sidewalk, unable to be helped._ Another one. _Watching him be towed away by strangers, himself falling from shock._ Another. _The funeral, weeping, mainly him, visiting the grave, just him. His only friend_. John gasped for air, spinning the handle on the shower to let cold water start to flow.   
That pushed John, ripped his soldier uniform off once more. His face and body leaning into the corner of the shower, feeling the icy water sting his red back. His hands held his face, snivelling. 

_God, Sherlock, why._

  
     John emerged from his shower, clean but distressed, eyes puffy and red. Eddie, who was laying on his bed, jumped onto the floor and yipped playfully. 

    _Forget, forget, forget, and move on. You have work tomorrow, anyway._


	13. England Would Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to his new work, but Mrs. Hudson has an announcement.

    _“No, Sherlock!” John screamed at the lights that blinded him, white, John held his hand up to try and block them. Out they went, and he was surrounded by darkness, overwhelming and pressing down. The noise was quiet and circling, above him like a hawk. It was Moriarty, laughing. A spotlight popped on directly above John. Something fell in front of him, it was red and had a knife jammed inside. The doctor bent down and picked it up by the hilt, spinning it around in his hand. It was an apple, I.O.U. carved on its side. The laughing got louder, closer, till it was right in John’s ear. He tried to push it away, leaning to his left and pulling his head from the sound. It followed him, menacingly. Another spotlight appeared farther away, a tall dark figure standing underneath. The figure grew closer, striding along, the spotlight always above it. It walked with a cane, no an umbrella. John could see it’s face now, it was Mycroft. But not normal Mycroft; he had blood splattered on his face. The red was on his hands and suit, and it dripped to the ground where he walked. The laughing of Moriarty faded as Dream Mycroft halted and began to speak, with a high-pitched voice, maniacally._

_"Time to go, John. Time to go!” Like a child on a field trip. Then he stepped forward, his face becoming sinister and angry. Their spotlights became connected at the edges, then there was only one. He was right up in John’s face, the blood across his face vibrant and still wet. Dream Mycroft began to open it’s mouth, a dirty, sharp-toothed mouth visible. He breathed heavily on John, whose own breath was frantic._

_In a low, deep tone, with vile thoughts procuring inside his mind, the Dream Mycroft whispered at John. At first, inaudible and incomprehensible, then he repeated it, growing louder and more aggressive._

_“Time to go, John. Time to go. Time to go. TIME TO GO!” He shouted at John’s face, mouth snake-like wide and brandishing rows of rotten fangs. He leaned into John, who tried to back away but was locked where he was. A rush of cold, black wind blew through the back of Dream Mycroft’s head and John’s face. It pushed John to the ground, he fell on his back, the black wind rushing and curling away. Dream Mycroft stood still, surprise on his face, and he turned to dust, his suit and umbrella dropping to the ground. The dust followed the black wind away._

_The doctor’s heart was beating so loud it drowned out any other noise that might be heard. He felt something drip on his face. It was wet and sticky, yet clear. Another drop, another, another. He tried to wipe the liquid off, but more poured on him. A loud bark startled him away._

     He woke with a scream, sitting up straight in his bed. Drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around. A small amount of sunlight blanketed the floor. The beating in his ears faded, being interrupted by yips from Eddie and the alarm of his phone yelling. Eddie was on the floor, apparently pushed maybe.  John turned the alarm off and rubbed his eyes.  


    _God, my head. Oh, I feel like Hell._ His phone read 7:02 in the morning. He had to leave for his work in an hour.  _Oh, yea, work, new work. Work with Mycroft, not Dream Mycroft, God no. Real Mycroft._

 

  
     By 7:30, John was sitting at the work table, munching on toast and sipping tea. He had changed into a pair of nice trousers and button down. (Mycroft had texted him earlier asking him to.) Eddie was chewing his cow, it squeaking periodically, in the middle of the room. The typed note still hung, taped over the broken window. 

 

  
     John assumed Eddie was okay to be without a cage at 221B, as he seemed tame enough, and hadn’t chewed or peed on anything yet. But you can never be too careful, so he shut the doors to everything. He stroked his hand down Eddie’s smooth, tan back and kissed his wrinkled head. The Pug yipped excitedly. It was 7:57 by this time, so John snatched his jacket and was out the door (“See you later, Ed.”). Coming down the stairs towards the main door, he had an idea. The doctor knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and waited a few moments before she answered. The landlady opened the door in her flower patterned robe.    


     “Oh, morning, John! Up already?” She smiled, but something wasn’t right. “What can I help you with, deary?”  


     John shrugged that something off as it being morning. “Mrs. Hudson could you do me a favour?”

     “Of course, John, just name it.”

     “Would you mind letting Eddie out today? He’s fine up there, but if you could hook him on his leash and take him outside to do his business, I would be very grateful.”  


     She pondered this for a second, then said “Why, sure John, be glad to,” her face drooped a bit.  


     “Great! Thanks!” John gave her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, then headed for the door.  


     “Oh, John,” the doctor turned back to look at the landlady, whose face had gone grim. “When you return home, do you think... do you think we could have a talk?” She was anxious.  


     “Mrs. Hudson...” John stepped towards her. “Is everything, is everything alright?” He leaned in, concerned.  


     The landlady, blinking rapidly, collected herself. “Yes, uhm, yes, fine.” It obviously wasn’t. “Now go, don’t be late!” She shooed him out of 221B, shuffling back to her own flat.  


_Well, that was... odd and... unsettling. I wonder-_   


     As John stepped onto the sidewalk, the sun peeking over the buildings. Pulling around the corner to his right was a sleek black car, which pulled up directly in front of him. The same brunette woman stepped out of her car, fiddling with her phone, and held the door open. John didn’t bother saying hello this time, and stepped into the car, shifting to the farther seat and escaping from the sunlight. The woman got back in, paying no attention to the doctor. The car pulled off and away from 221B. The scenery outside blurred by, darkened by the tinted windows.  


_I wonder what Mrs. Hudson wants to talk about. She sounded serious. God, if anything happened to her-_ John cut himself off mid-thought, knowing exactly where they would lead. Again. To where they always led to. Forget it, don’t worry about it, I bet it’s nothing, focus on the task ahead. The task ahead was actually thirty eight minutes away, so John was plagued by lingering negative thoughts.

 

  
     John was almost falling asleep by the time the black car pulled up in front of a large, blocky building. It was surrounded by woods, about 3 stories tall but quite wide. It’s main colour theme was silver, black, and blue. Or, as Sherlock called it once,  ‘Unwelcoming Government Building’ coloured. John’s door was opened, blinding him with light that was quickly blocked by a thick figure. A black, muscular man in an expensive suit stood out of the way of the door, allowing John to step out of the car. The surroundings were bland, geometric. Muscle Man shut the door.  


     “If you would please follow me, Mr. Watson,” he said in a rocky, deep voice. John was lead to the front of the intimidating building, to a pair of metal doors. The man ran a keycard and said something into his earpiece (“Hedgehog has arrived, bringing him in”). John gave the man’s back a perplexed look at his words.  


_Hedgehog, why am I a hedgehog._   


     The two metal doors slide open, revealing a spotlessly white interior. Mycroft was waiting on the inside, striding from around the corner with his usual umbrella cane. John winced upon first seeing him, remembering his recent dream.  


     “Ah, welcome John,” Mycroft said as they approached each other. He gave a nod to Muscle Man, who left them. John watched his lumber away down the pristine hallway.   


     “Mycroft, hi, thanks, listen, the window of the flat-” Mycroft put a hand up to stop the doctor.  


     “Yes, I know John, I have been informed. It will be fixed by the time you arrive home.”

     

     John was then given a tour of a few of the rooms he would be working in. White walls, linoleum floors throughout, harsh lights and rows of beds in some. Other doctors scurried along, in white scrubs, masked faces buried in clipboards, the occasional smear of red across their attire. The rooms included an extensive and high-tech lab, darker inside than other rooms. Microscopes along counters, computer screen hung from the walls. It was the cheeriest of the work areas.   


     Another, and one that struck John, reminding him of his army days, was the Emergency Care Center, with its own set of patient lodgings. Doctors rushed past the pair, who had to dawn surgical masks, wheeling stretchers with bloody patients. Some were screaming in pain, others unconscious. Mycroft made sure they didn’t stay too long in that one area (“Don’t want to get too in the way, now”), as John would only work there if needed (“Highly unlikely, but it’s possible”). Dr. Watson would be aiding in smaller cases in the Minor Injury Unit [MIU]; fractures, broken bones, gashes, light bleeding, and common bacterial infections. He would mend, put arms in slings, clean up cuts, some stitches, prescribe antibacterials.   


     Mycroft explained, as the pair walked to a different part of the building, that all things going on in this building are top secret (“You will be given limited information about how the injuries came to be, but some nonetheless”). John was to keep his nose in his business, not ask questions unless necessary, and do his job. Seemed a bit blunt, but government work is that way.   


     This new part of the building wasn’t so sterile looking. Passing through a pair of keycard-opened glass doors, the walls changed to a welcoming cream and dark coloured patterned carpet blanketed their path. The lights, mini chandeliers dangling, were dimmed, crowing the halls with yellow. A faint hint of cigar smoke hung in the air, along with leather, tea, and ink. Mycroft strode gracefully a step in front of John, while the doctor plodding behind. After walking by a few secondary hallways, Muscle Man appeared standing next to a closed cherry wood door. Muscle Man stepped to the side (“Mr. Holmes,” nodding), allowing Mycroft to unlock the door with his keycard (“Just tea, Christian, in twenty minutes,” at which Muscle Man nodded and took off).  


     The door was opened to reveal a grand office, fireplace along the wall and an overly large desk on the opposite side of the room that faced almost directly at the doorway. It appeared the be Mycroft’s personal office. Mycroft held the door for John, who walked in with his head spinning and taking in the grand surroundings. The door was closed behind the doctor.  


     “Take a seat, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft walked silently to his desk and sat in a brown leather chair, he motioned for the lesser leather chair in front of his desk. John sat, the seat squeaking from underuse. “I don’t usually allow others in my office, especially new employees, and a doctor at that,” he leaned back, crossing his long legs and interlacing his fingers with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “But since I know you personally, I feel this is suitable.”   


     Mycroft went on about John’s job, daily schedule, benefits, and prime thing John was sitting when he told him about his paycheck ( _Jesus, government people make good money_ ). The doctor was to, for the rest of his work day (about 3 hours left, since he was getting out early), follow around and assist the head doctor of the MIU. 

     Muscle Man, as John still saw him, knocked twice then entered with a tray of tea and biscuits. He placed it gently on Mycroft’s desk, then stood waiting for instructions.

     “Christian, please lead Dr. Watson here to Dr. Margaret Salisbury in MIU,” Mycroft directed.

     The servant gave a slight bow with his hands behind his back, “Of course Mr. Holmes.” He walked around the desk, “If you would, Dr. Watson,” he motioned towards the door. And John, once again, followed.

 

     Dr. Salisbury was a nice, middle-aged brunette, obviously frazzled and stressed from work. She had John do odd jobs; fetch gauze, clean the wound, fill this form out, test the patient’s reflexes. Dr. Salisbury went through the mandatory paperwork and tests every patient had to go through. John felt he had the flow going, and could handle it relatively well tomorrow, by the time 3:30 pm hit.

 

     Christian found John and lead him out to a sleek black car waiting to take him home.

_If this is how it will be everyday, that’s alright with me._

 

     When the car pulled up alongside the road in front of 221B Baker Street, the skies were greying and rain drops patted the sidewalk. John slammed the car door and hurried to the ebony door, the vehicle driving off behind him. He fumbled with his keys, shoulders and hair becoming damp, and finally unlocked the door and pushed it open. Yipping came from upstairs in the flat, no doubt Eddie excited John was home. After having a pleasant day, the doctor felt jubilant, and bounded up the stairs to greet his Pug.

     John arrived at the top of the stairs, but stood in the doorway, grinning. He noted that the window had indeed been fixed. Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the work table, but was playing tug-of-war with the small dog. She giggled, her pink lips pulled upwards, a purple cardigan buttoned up, and little furs dotting her tan skirt. Eddie stopped tugging, spinning around and rushing toward his new owner. John bent down when he reached his, ruffling his head (“Hey, Eddie! Did you miss me? How was your day?”). The doctor looked up from the dog, now licking his hands, to see the landlady. Her face smile was fading, the light that was in her eyes dimming.

     “John, deary...” She hesitated, pink lips pulling downward. “Could we, uhm, talk?” A somber expression fell upon her, eyes drooping, and she pressed her index finger to her lips.

     Dr. Watson stood up slowly, ignoring the Pug’s attempts to regain his attention, and  somewhat furrowed his brow. “Of, of course,” he started towards the chair opposite of Mrs. Hudson. “What’s wrong?”

     The landlady’s eyes grew wet, hands fiddling on the table, lower lip beginning to quiver. John reached for her hands with his to comfort her, as whatever the news was, it was serious.

     “I’ll just,” she started to blubber out, her nose swelling and cheeks growing red with clear tracks. “I’ll just come out and say it then, no use in me trying to sugar coat it.” Mrs. Hudson studied the man before her for a second, as if thinking she shouldn’t tell him. “John,” she took a deep breath. “John, deary, I’ve got breast cancer.”

     The doctor tensed up, almost withdrawing his hands but deciding to have them remain grasping her’s. He made movements with his mouth as if to speak, but his windpipe seemed blocked. He shook his head, giving a nervous chuckle. “No, no, no this, this can’t be right, no,” John leaned forward, his throat tightened and his breath uneven. Mrs. Hudson mirrored these, her cheeks shining with tears, lips pressed into a thin line. The landlady gave a small nod, confirming the doctor’s disbelief. “Mrs. Hudson...” John’s body hunched over, suddenly stricken with the weight of grief.

     “Test results came last night. Stage two. I begin my treatment within the week, but-” The landlady turned her face away, it crinkled, no more light in her eyes. “The doctor said I- I still might not-” She looked back to John and grasped his hands tighter, him doing the same.

     John’s face was like a child losing his parent, eyes wide and misty, searching for comfort in the elder’s presence, but it only caused more despair. “But, Mrs. Hudson,” the doctor’s lips attempting a smile. “England would fall without you.”

     The landlady’s mouth quivered, eyes glimmering with kindness, but her body read compunction. She burst, withdrawing her hands from John to cover her face. She wept, hunched over onto herself, softly and contained. The doctor pushed himself up from his seat, leg suddenly stiff, but he went over to where she sat. He bent in front of Mrs. Hudson, placing his hands gently upon her purple shoulders. Her hands felt just enough to let her bloodshot, brown eyes peek at John.

     “We’ll get through this,” he promised, managing a weak smile. John knew that the words were not reflected in his body language as much as they could have, but this bad news had come too soon. The soldier was not prepared for another battle, another war with emotions and death looming overhead. His uniform ripped from nightmares, gun unpolished and stowed away. He certainly did not want to get into this fight. If he could, John would have gotten up and left to start anew right after Sherlock jumped. That wasn’t who he was though, and he wouldn’t, couldn’t, abandon this woman he considered a mother. No, John would be there for Mrs. Hudson, good and bad.

     The landlady’s hands fell further from her face till they rested against her tan skirt. John’s arms slipped around Mrs. Hudson’s back to hug her, hold her in this vulnerable stage of life. This dreadful, remorseless stage of life that planned to rip another close soul from his grip. Mrs. Hudson’s delicate hands settle on the doctor’s back, not tightly, but similar to how one holds a baby kitten.

     The rain outside pounded harder against the new window of 221B Baker Street. The shadows of droplets freckled the floor. The silence was of gloom, of a lamentable calm before the storm, if a storm were to come at all. The flat was dark beside where the pair clung, the Pug somberly laying on the floor near their feet.

_Hopefully, the treatment will work. Hopefully, life can move on, be normal once again, truly happy once more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, busy with school, might be while between chapters for a bit.


	14. 2 Weeks Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 weeks later, and John goes out with Greg.

     Saturday, June 1st; about two weeks after John Watson’s first visit to his new work, and about one month since Sherlock jumped. Throughout the day, due to lack of rain in the forecast, John took Eddie to the dog park. He had invited Mrs. Hudson to join them, but she politely declined. Her treatments left her weak, with thinning hair and dull eyes. It wasn’t proper to see her, Mrs. Hudson of all people, enervated.  


     Over the last two weeks, John developed friendships with his co-workers, gone out with them a time or two already. The generous paycheck the doctor had received twice so far covers the bills, but also leaves John a bit extra, which he has split into savings and luxuries. He also plans on cleaning out the flat a bit, getting new appliances and such. It may seem like a boring life to onlookers, people who knew John during the war or when Sherlock was alive, but something changed in him after the fall. Something shifted. John missed the action, the chaos caused by Sherlock, though he knew he wouldn’t get that back, so why try? Instead, it was back to being ordinary.

 

  
     “Ah, John! Been long enough!” Lestrade patted John’s shoulder, smiling. He had invited the doctor out for a pint at a local pub, which John just arrived at. They had not talked much since the fall, so John agreed to meet him. Outside was darkening, and John’s stomach rumbled.   


     “Greg, hi, how you been?” He patted the detective’s shoulder in return.  


     “Good, good,” Lestrade’s face fell a bit, eyes traveling downwards to the floorboards. “Actually, not that good. The wife, work, you know,”   


     John was almost itching for a distraction from his own life and problems, so he let Greg jabber on. The two grabbed a small raised tables and chairs, where they ordered drinks and sandwiches, hanging jackets on the backs of the chairs. They talked briefly about recent happenings before Greg started to tell a story about finding a man dead in an alley.  


     “And then Anderson,” Greg took a sip from his half full glass. He leans forward, pointing a finger up. “Anderson goes on to claim it was a suicide!” The detective chuckled, then leaned back in his chair, taking another sip with his eyebrows raised.   


     “How is Anderson even allowed on crime scenes anymore?” They both laugh at this remark. John bit at his sandwich, the alcohol tingling inside.   


     “So, John, this new job, you liking it?”   


     “Oh, yea, provides just enough chaos and stress, along with decent pay.” They tap glasses (“I hear you there”). Mycroft’s specific instruction of not telling anyone information about his work danced at the back of John’s head, but the alcohol shoved it away. One small story wouldn’t do any harm, right?  


     “I had this one man today, you might appreciate this,” John sipped at his near empty glass. “Cuts along his sides, bits of glass in his skin, bumped his head. Apparently, he was escaping through a broken window! Yea, and that wasn’t the worst of it,” John leaned his forearms on the table, his eyes flickering from side to side as if spies watched them. “Guess where he had splinters, that I had to remove!” 

     Greg shut his eyes, tilted his head, and pursed his lips.  “Oh, mate, bet that must have been fun.”

     “Oh yea, my favourite thing! Poor bloke flushed up when I told him he had to go pantsless.” They laughed, then continued to talk about work and their lives. Mrs. Hudson’s situation eventually got brought up, too.

     “Oh, sorry John, that’s... that’s horrible. And so soon after-” Greg caught himself, and let his breath out instead of words. He looked away from John, bit ashamed at his wording. “I didn’t mean to, uhm,”

     “No it’s, uhm, it’s fine,” John waved it away. Not something he wanted to think about after having a nice night.

     “How are you, then? Hanging in there all right? With,” Greg did a quick circular motion with his hand. “Everything. Not secretly suicidal on me, right?” He looked genuinely concerned.

     “Yea, much better than a few weeks ago. Eddie, you know my new dog I mentioned earlier, he’s really brightened up my daily mood.”

     “Well, that’s good.” Both focused their gazes elsewhere. They sat in a comfortable silence for minute till the waitress came over (“Yea, we’re done, check then, please”).

     “So, you, uh, talked to Molly recently?” Lestrade asked, almost out of nowhere. John sat back, surprised by the question.

     “What? Oh, yea, she’s doing fine. Why do you ask?” John made a mental note to text Molly after paying.

     Lestrade gave a little hand motion, “No reason, just haven’t, uhm, just haven’t seen her in awhile.” His eyes drooped to the table, running his tongue over his teeth behind his lips.  


     “Okay then,” John smiled lightly. He knew that Lestrade liked her, the two had hit it off at the Christmas party and Greg comforted her at the funeral. The waitress appeared with the check in hand. Both men reached for it.   


     “No, Greg, let me get it this time, mate,” John paid, giving a decent tip.   


     “Oh, thanks, John.”  


     They pulled on their jackets and headed for the door. Before parting ways, outside the pair said their goodbyes.  


     “That was nice, thanks for that, needed to get out,” Lestrade patted John’s shoulder as he did at the start of the evening.   


     “No problem, Greg. See you soon, then?”  


     “Yea, yea definitely. Remember, I’m here for you if you need me, mate.” He dropped his hand from John’s shoulder. They both smiled, nodded and walked separate ways. 

     It was sprinkling, almost fully dark, but 221B Baker Street wasn’t too far. John pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, bright in the blackness. 7:12 pm. He was feeling exceptionally social this weekend. Text to Molly Hooper.

_Molly, you free for lunch tomorrow?_

     A few minutes later, a response.

      _Sure, John, where do you have in mind?_

     John sent a text back talking about a café in central London that Mrs. Hudson once told him about, to be for lunch.

_Sounds fine. I have something later in the afternoon, so if we could go at 11 that would be great._

_Yea, 11 works. See you there._

     John was almost going to respond saying how it wasn’t an actual date, but he felt she might figure that out. If not now, then by their behavior and conversation tomorrow. He continued his walk towards Baker Street, briskly now that the rain became heavier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May drag a bit, but I'm skipping time chunks to push it along. Remember to follow along with Sherlock's version!

**Author's Note:**

> Companion Chapters (Sherlock's View): [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/598863?view_full_work=true)


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